Mondays are great days for confessions, don’t you think?
Well, here’s one to start us off: I have a slight obsession with cooking at the moment. I watch Food Network. I hunt down recipes on Pinterest. I help my husband live with adventure because he never knows what’s coming out of the oven next.
My family and friends think this is hilarious. Because a few years ago my ability to plan a good meal consisted of one sentence: “Where do you want to eat?” And in defense of my Mama, I was far more interested in cute boys than culinary accomplishments in high school.
I’ve learned to make salad dressing, how to properly fry an egg, and more ways to cook chicken than I can count. Yes, ma’am.
{I haven’t quite mastered the art of bread yet. I recently attempted ciabatta and it was so bad that even my dog spit it out. Yes, the same dog who eats who-knows-what in the backyard. Harumph.}
Baking is my favorite. On a bad day there’s something soothing about knowing if you add so much sugar, this much flour, and stir it together then wonderfulness will happen.
My husband has learned to circle the kitchen like a wise bird, diving into bowls at just the right moment {usually when I’m not looking}. Sometimes I turn around to see him grinning like he’s about to win the lottery. Occasionally, he looks stunned and confused–like someone smacked him when he expected a kiss.
“I haven’t added the sugar yet,” I explain.
I find we do the same with situations in our lives. God’s stirring up something and we come swooping in with a spoon. We get a taste and panic. What is going on here? How is it going to turn out? This doesn’t seem right at all!
We may even take things in our own hands and try to fix it.
All the while, God knows something we easily overlook: it’s not done yet.
You’re not done yet.
I like to think that baking takes faith. It requires trusting that the goo in the pan is going to transform itself into loveliness when there’s currently no evidence that’s even possible.
Moving forward when we don’t understand is much the same. We trust. We wait. We release.
My husband comes back thirty minutes later. The batter he wondered about is now a beautiful batch of muffins nestled on the counter. He snatches one and takes a bite.
“See? I told you!” I declare with a grin.
He nods approvingly since his mouth is full.
I can tell he’s glad he trusted me.
I turn back to the quiche filling that’s waiting quietly in a bowl.
I lean in and whisper with a smile, “Don’t worry. Good things are ahead for you. You’re just not done yet.”
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